


A New Lab

by fistfulofglitches



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Experiments, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Kink Meme, Kinkmeme, M/M, No Sex, injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-02
Updated: 2015-02-01
Packaged: 2018-03-10 02:31:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3273461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fistfulofglitches/pseuds/fistfulofglitches
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"John has finally put his foot down and demanded Sherlock stop doing disgusting experiments in the kitchen. Since moving away from 221B is totally unthinkable and there's nowhere else to keep his science supplies, Sherlock concludes his only possible course of action is to finally seduce John Watson. Then they can both just share John's room and Sherlock can use his current room for experiments and as a bonus, Sherlock will finally get to have sex with John like he's been dreaming about for so long.</p><p>It's all John's fault for being so unreasonable about what belongs in a kitchen, anyway."</p><p>Kink meme prompt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Territory

That was it. John was done. For days, a foul smell had been wafting through the flat, and for days, Sherlock had failed to do anything about it. That day, when John arrived home to the sight of Sherlock laying on the couch, staring at the ceiling, John made up his mind. It wasn't that Sherlock was laying there; it was that Sherlock wasn't cleaning up the wreck he’d made of the kitchen. 

John dropped the groceries off just past the doorway, for lack of anywhere else to place them, and set forth into the worst room of them all. On his way in, he tripped over a small tub of sand splattered with what was presumably blood, nearly twisting his ankle in the process. He brushed the sand off of his pants and continued.

“Sher-” John stopped himself before saying anything further. Although Sherlock acted like a child at times, John was not a parent and did not intend to nag anyone until he was. Besides, this was not up for discussion, not anymore, at least. 

John opened the refrigerator door, from whence the stench came, and was met by a wave of air that triggered his gag reflex. Straightening his shoulders and letting his hands fall from the refrigerator door, John turned and took a breath of relatively fresh air before plunging his arms into the source of the unspeakable odor. 

His eyes watered when he shifted a container full of a yellow mud that oozed wherever gravity pulled it. Several such oddities were discovered within. All of these so-called “experiments”, which John doubted were for anything other than Sherlock’s personal amusement, were promptly discarded into the waste bin. Most of the food received the same fate, save for John’s favorite jam, which he disinfected and placed back inside the refrigerator.

However, he was not finished yet. John retrieved another garbage bag and set about tidying up the rest of the room. For now, after a long day full of extraordinary injuries in the emergency room, the kitchen was all he could focus on. So long as his armchair had nothing resting on top of it, he was content with simply clearing the rest of the counter before watching some telly.

The counter seemed to hold materials of a more expensive and less pungent nature, so John compromised and transferred everything to the space just before Sherlock’s door. If Sherlock wanted to sleep, then he would have to clean up all of his things. Knowing Sherlock, though, the detective would probably sleep on the couch just to spite him. With all of the mess gone, John finished by taking the trash out.

Just as he sunk into his chair and began to unwind from the hectic day at work, Sherlock sat up with an unfocused gaze, before his eyes settled on something behind John. 

“Hello to you too, Sherlock,” John murmured and braced himself for the tantrum that was surely on its way.

“John!” Sherlock hollered and John sighed, rolled his eyes, and rose to face his flatmate.

“You tripped over my sand.” Sherlock glared at him, as if deeply offended. John stared right back, though. It was, for all intents and purposes, John’s kitchen because he actually used it for its original purpose: to cook and to store food. 

“Well, to be fair, you put your sand in the middle of the floor, so you can’t-” John replied, remaining calm as the detective prematurely began to sulk.

“I most certainly can. A murder case depends on the results of that -”

“I almost broke my ankle trying to get into there.” John cut in, “It’s a kitchen, Sherlock, not a lab!”

“Well it’s not my fault that someone isn't observant.” Sherlock muttered, “I’ll have to make another one now.”

“Then make another one, Sherlock. I’m putting my foot down. No more experiments in the kitchen.” John stated in a successful attempt at shutting down this debate.

“We’ll see about that.” 

As always, Sherlock had to have the last word. Well, let him have it, but at least John had his kitchen back. Only for the moment, of course. There would undoubtedly be further arguments over the room and the floor was still covered in sand, but all that aside, John was content with the evening.


	2. Hypothesis

In the following days, Sherlock tested the waters as to how serious John was about this new rule. While John was away, he began to leave papers and books on the counter. All of these were immediately taken by John upon his arrival home and placed in the living room, on whatever surface was available. Sherlock’s experiment did not get very far before John reprimanded him.

“Sherlock, I know what you’re doing.” John called from the kitchen as he removed a particularly large stack of files, “The kitchen is mine, alright?”

Sherlock huffed and looked away, causing John to snort and continue about his business. It seemed that the doctor really was intent on making this a lasting edict at 221B. Fine, then. Swayed from his original goal, which was to reclaim his previously unchallenged territory, Sherlock shifted towards finding a suitable space that would serve as a replacement.

Of course, his room was out of the question. For particularly difficult puzzles, his mind demanded an uncluttered environment. Sherlock’s bathroom was also a non-option; the last time he tried conducting research in there, he slipped and spilled a highly potent acid. Needless to say, Mrs. Hudson was not pleased to come home to a gaping hole in the ceiling. 

If only John’s room was empty, as it was before. While it was inconvenient to travel up a flight of stairs, it had been useful for when the number of experiments exceeded the lower floor’s capacity. Not that Sherlock wanted John to leave, of course. Obviously, John was better than any experiment. Buried beneath all of his talk of John being “ordinary” or “dull”, there was a deep and unusual fondness for the ex-soldier. Some might call it “love”, but Sherlock didn't feel the need to put a name to it. Labels required thought and he did not want to think about what this implied. 

It wasn't John’s room that needed to be empty. It was Sherlock’s. His bedroom had a much closer proximity to the experiments downstairs. Plus, all of the projects that John had left somewhat intact and next to his door were now located on the inside of his closet. All he would have to is drag them out into the main section of the room.

Yet, he would still need a place to sleep, if he were to change the purpose of his room to that of a makeshift laboratory. The living room wasn't suited towards providing decent rest; even Sherlock needed to sleep, although, he might add, not nearly as much as the rest of the population required.

John’s room was desirable, so long as the doctor was included with the package. Sherlock rolled his eyes at himself and attempted to dismiss such irrational thoughts, but images of Sunday mornings filled his head. He felt a physical strain in his heart at the idea of waking up spooned against his would-be lover. 

“Morning, love,” John would murmur, yawn, and shift underneath Sherlock’s arm, which would remain wrapped around his doctor’s waist. “Breakfast?”

Sherlock would agree in order to please him, even though eating in the morning made him feel a little sluggish. John might try to rise from their bed, or he might remain there for the whole morning, but Sherlock would almost certainly tighten his grip and press his face into the nape of his neck.

“Sherlock,” John, covering the receiver on the phone, nudged him and brought him back to the flat. John was ordering take-out, presumably.

“The usual,” Sherlock composed his expression and watched John out of the corner of his eye as he finished ordering and took his place in his armchair once more. The show on the telly was vaguely familiar. He wasn't sure who the doctor was, but for some reason or another, he recognized the police box. He sat there, motionless, pondering why this was so interesting to his flatmate, but quickly realized that this was both irrelevant and unimportant, compared with his previous train of thought. John’s bedroom was a possibility and a highly desirable one at that. This required further thought, prompting Sherlock to retreat to his room. 

“Sherlock, it’s almost here-” The door slammed behind Sherlock, who was eager to start work on solving this puzzle and, indeed, what a puzzle this was.


	3. Mission Accomplished

“Why must I wear this infernal cast?” Sherlock moaned a rhetorical question. “I can’t get up these stairs with this...this monstrosity!” Out of the corner of his eye, he watched for John’s reaction, either belief or disbelief. The cast wasn't quite so restrictive so as to limit Sherlock from stairs entirely, but seeing as the detective had gone through all the trouble of breaking bones, he might as well use it for all it was worth; there was still an opportunity to collect data even though his initial plan failed.

Originally, Sherlock only intended to either sprain or break his ankle. Despite the staggering amount of data that he had in favor of his first hypothesis, i.e., that John was bisexual, he still had no evidence for his secondary hypothesis. In short, John was bisexual, but it remained to be seen whether or not Sherlock had wormed his way into the doctor’s heart. Of course, John had an obvious fascination with Sherlock, but he had learned at a very young age that fascination was worlds away from love and vice versa. To be fascinated with Sherlock did not mean to be in love with him as a natural consequence. 

So the detective orchestrated a scenario that would give him a clearer picture of their relationship. He arranged for a “suspect” (in actuality, it was one of his homeless network) and a chase to occur over the tops of several buildings. The height of the buildings was calculated so that Sherlock wouldn't fall to his death when he “miscalculated” both the height and the distance from one building to the next.

At any rate, he did miscalculate, and the result was not only a broken ankle, but also a broken fibula and humerus. He wasn't prepared to see bone peeking out from his normally uninjured arm and he was definitely not ready to see the massive amounts of spurting blood coming from none other than himself. It hurt very badly, and after the onset of shock and a wave of nausea wracked his body. he found himself entering into darkness. 

John, upon Sherlock’s awakening at the hospital, was not pleased. A by now familiar skip in Sherlock’s heart made him feel light-headed and...giddy… at the ensuing barrage of lectures and general nagging. He didn't bother fighting it at this point, both because of the pain medications that made thinking a little difficult as well as his endgame. Sherlock would not be getting to stay in John’s room, freeing up his own in the process, unless he opened himself up to this disgusting sentimentality that John seemed to be so fond of. 

He had no way of knowing whether John’s reaction was that of a friend or that of something more, of a concerned significant other. The lines, or what Sherlock imagined the lines to be, between friendship and romance had always been heavily blurred. 

“Well, you’re going to have to figure out how to get up the stairs, Sherlock. You won’t get up here just standing there.” John said as he slid past Sherlock and began to trudge up the stairs. The remnants of stress were still evident on his face.

“Carry me.” Sherlock called from his stationary position at ground level. He was pleased at John’s pause. “I can’t get up there, John.” A few mutters floated down to meet Sherlock’s ears before John came back down with a sigh.

“As your majesty commands,” John grumbled, trying and failing to keep a grin from spilling across his face. Sherlock noted a pink tint that increased as he discarded the crutches and picked Sherlock up bridal style. 

The feel of John’s arms around him, gentle and mindful of his injuries, yet still powerful from the war, made his face heat up as well. Sherlock forced himself to make eye contact, to mentally record the dilation of John’s pupils. They were growing very large, it so happened. John also seemed very determined not to look at Sherlock. Sherlock was right.

“Your face is red,” Sherlock’s mouth spit out of its own accord.

“Well, believe it or not, you’re not as light as you look.” John managed to say before lowering Sherlock’s legs to the ground at the top of the stairs. “Let me get your crutches.” Sherlock held onto the wall for support while John quickly disappeared and returned. 

“Your pupils are dilated. You won’t make eye contact with me. You can’t look at me, can you?”

John’s eyes lifted from the floor in a harsh glare. Sherlock, hardly ever one to be shaken, was unnerved with the sheer amount of frustration among other unknown emotions expressed in John’s eyes. 

“So what, Sherlock Holmes? What are you saying?” 

“I’m saying that we both display mutual affection for each other and that,” Sherlock paused, biting his lip in an attempt to gather the words, “And that-”

“What? That I’m an idiot for caring about you?” John snarled. The hostility took Sherlock off guard. It seemed that John was deeply insecure about this, but why, why was he angry when Sherlock was telling him what they both wanted to hear?

“No. I mean to suggest that the feeling is, uh,” Sherlock felt his composure slip and the anxiety begin to build in his chest. “That, uh, um-” 

“Go on.” John’s face softened when he saw the stress Sherlock was under. The detective rarely let such emotion display, but if John was right, he looked ready to cry. “What is it, Sherlock?”

“I desire your affection as you do-” Sherlock paused to correct himself, “As I hope you desire mine.”

“So you love me.” John felt a small smile grow on his face, before shaking his head and laughing, “I love you too, you git. Come here.”

John stepped forward and gave him the best hug Sherlock had ever received. John was mindful of his casts, but hugged Sherlock with such care, evident from the cracks and pops of Sherlock’s back, that Sherlock couldn't help but return it.

“Now, come on, let’s get you in bed. Doctor’s orders, yeah?” John released him and cautiously rubbed Sherlock’s uninjured arm. 

“As long as it’s yours.” Sherlock countered with a grin and the proposal was agreed to.

Mission accomplished.


End file.
